


Nanti Polari

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Historical Fiction:WWII, M/M, Nazis, Polari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: If my brother isn’t sleeping with Watson, why would he possibly wish to spend this much time around the idiot? They seem to work as a reasonably efficient unit, but, how? And why?We all want those very same answers, Mycroft. Hopefully this fic provides just that, with a bit of history thrown in the mix.





	Nanti Polari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clearinghouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/gifts).



When Mycroft had first met Watson (it was a few months into our partnership-- he is a very busy man and had to make time for any familial obligations), my brother had looked at him aghast. Why should I find myself sharing a flat with some random soldier, just returned from the Third Afghan War, when Mycroft had offered me a suitable supplemental income, sufficient to afford private living quarters? And if I wanted company-- for the sake of my own sobriety, if for nothing else-- why in heaven's name would I have chosen someone so.... Well, Dear Reader, let us not mince words. Someone so inferior to my own intellectual capabilities. Many have implied that Watson is a bumbling oaf. Mycroft could not have failed to do so.

No sooner had Watson left to replenish our tea then Mycroft had turned to me and flatly stated, "He seems an ideal housemate, Sherlock. He is easy to manipulate, due to his peerless idiocy." Then he had waited. To see if I would agree, or if I would become indignant and jump to Watson's defense. I had done neither.

Mycroft had then continued despite my lack of reaction, or perhaps because of it. "Apologies for my directness, Brother, but, since such a fact is clearly irrelevant to you, let us at least openly acknowledge it. Unless he is something... more... than a convenient means by which to refuse my aid?" 

Suggestive. Insightful. And yet, one of the few occasions when Mycroft had been completely wrong. 

I hadn't allowed myself to develop a more... personal... interest in Dr John Watson. In truth, were he to have had one in me, I would certainly have considered it. I had answered Mycroft's thinly-veiled question safely within the confines of my own mind. _Fortunately--_ and I had added 'fortunately' with a slight hesitancy-- _Watson has no desire for anything more than my friendship_. There had been, after all, far too many things to attend to and romance was utter nonsense, unbefitting a man of the mind. 

It was certainly not a conversation one would ever wish to have with one's own brother, though having it with Mycroft had been inevitable-- with or without actual words. "And physical needs are not nonsense," he’d continued, still addressing the silence, barging his way into my unspoken thoughts.

I had understood at once why Mycroft had jumped to such an erroneous conclusion regarding the nature of the relationship. My general disinterest in women, and in the traditional path of courtship which would inevitably lead to marriage, had been clear from an early age. Though the… predilection... was a rare one, Mycroft simply had deduced that it was one we both shared, though we never openly discussed it.

The precise nature of our deviation from the norm is not quite identical, however. My interest has never been piqued by those who frequent the Caravan Club-- London's greatest bohemian rendezvous, commonly referred to as the most _unconventional_ place in town. Located near Covent Garden, the building is constantly monitored by the police from their vantage point at the Shaftsbury Theatre. There are frequent raids. With the law diverted by such a well-known (yet, ostensibly secret) meeting place for their unique clientele, it is only natural that a far more discreet, _truly_ secret, location should arise, of which the authorities are entirely unaware. And so the Diogenes Club was born: a far more elegant descendant of that shabby Endell Street dive. It has more elaborate rules of conduct than its predecessor as well… with a strict code of silence, quite literally, to protect its members from any accusations. It is brilliant. No plainclothes officer could ever make any headway in that place. And Mycroft Holmes was its chief architect.

I’ve spotted the occasional well-known artist lounging about, a magazine in hand, during some of my admittedly infrequent visits to Mycroft's club. He once confided in me that many of its members were to be found within the pages of the Nazis’ infamous Black Book, filled with undesirables to be executed immediately should they finally earn their greatest prize-- London. Yes, Mycroft is there, alongside Noel Coward, Virginia Woolf, Paul Robeson, Bertrand Russell, C.P. Snow and H.G. Wells. He had then shown me a letter that a friend had sent him, upon discovering her name was also on that list, which read: 'My dear, the people we should have been seen dead with!'

Of course we’d discussed the matter vaguely in the past, with regard to personal safety. He had suggested that we’d come a long way from those dark days of Victoria Regina. That he-- well, he’d meant _he_ , but had said _anyone of a more marginialised bent with a penchant for unusual relationships_ \-- had little to fear from his own government, provided he kept far away from prominent figures. This had been Wilde's famous mistake, of course-- picking a fight with the wrong man. I had certainly agreed with his assessment, and had gone so far as to mention that, in these more enlightened times, not only those in "acceptable" areas such as The Arts, but many prominent politicians, were all living a quietly gay life: Baldwin, Nicolson and Vita Sackville-West _both_ , Channon, Drieberg with his infamous society column.... 

Mycroft had blanched slightly upon my mention of that particular name, so, naturally, I had pursued the matter. “If Drieberg could overcome an indecent assault charge after sharing his bed with two Scotsmen he picked up late one night in the bohemian district of Fitzrovia,” I’d said, with a wave of the hand, “and then be cleared of any wrongdoing, have the case completely ignored by the press--”

He had merely mumbled something regarding special privileges and kindly requested I not speak of Drieberg again. Drieberg's role as a government agent was to be revealed in good time; it should surprise no one that men used to navigating their own daily secrets should be adept at keeping those belonging to the Commonwealth. I can say I was the first "ordinary" citizen to know of his ties to MI6.

That we would revisit both conversations years later in the Stranger's Room was equally unsurprising. "Speaking as someone with far greater experience in such matters, Sherlock, let me assure you I live my life as I see fit, without fear of reprisals. You will certainly receive the same treatment, given appropriate levels of discretion, regarding your biographer and," he paused, searching for _le mot juste_ , "...helpmate." He paused again before adding, "As if he is capable of offering any actual assistance in your work."

I chuckled, but inwardly, I bristled. "I do not fool myself into thinking Watson is my intellectual equal, but there is far more to the man than that alone. He is fearless, and he is.... I believe the size of his brain is irrelevant when compared with--"

Mycroft burst out in laughter. "Ah. No need for clarification! To the great satisfaction of men and women spanning three continents-- I am well aware! He has aged, certainly, but one presumes such a skill set can only improve over time."

My face heated at his words. "I do not have a sexual relationship with John Watson! I was about to say the size of his brain is irrelevant, when compared with the size of his heart!"

It has always been difficult for me to quantify what it is that binds Watson and myself together. Mycroft had proposed a lurid rationale, but Watson and I have something deeper than this-- nothing I could ever hope to explain to so ruthlessly practical a man. I paused for words. "You mean to say you are capable of appreciating someone only if they possess great intellectual or physical allure?" I knew this would have the intended effect upon my brother because, until all too recently, I had regarded others in much the same way. Well, intellectual allure, at any rate. None had held anything physical for me. It had been Watson who had broken through my arrogant mindset, though I cannot say how or why.

Mycroft did not answer. Of course, I claimed this as a personal victory. And, as is the nature of a younger brother, I did not stop there.

"He is a good man, Mycroft. A generous and straightforward man. And I have seen him quack like a duck to make a sad little girl smile again. Would you do such a thing? I’m intelligent enough for the both of us but not half as fearless, or as direct, as Watson. He’s an honest man. I am-- as are you, I should think-- a swindler at heart. That I-- that we both-- have found a way to use those tendencies for the betterment of mankind is fortunate. I am just steps away from becoming a master criminal in my own right. Someone who reminds me of the simple goodness of human nature is an invaluable companion. Which reminds me-- I’ve an invitation to meet Watson and a good friend of his for lunch in an hour. Good afternoon, Mycroft.”

I left the club.

I had, in fact, already declined Watson’s invitation, claiming an important experiment would soon reach a critical juncture. Referring to Murray as a ‘good friend’ had also been less than accurate. Even though he had carried Watson’s unconscious body out of the line of fire and saved his life, Watson scarcely knew the man, and this was to be their first meeting. I often wonder if it is simply my nature to deceive. 

It wasn’t that I was above being social-- Gregson and I had just gone out for drinks earlier in the week, as a matter of fact-- but to hear Watson and any fellow soldiers talk of war, be it the current conflict or past exploits, made me ill at ease. Yes, I was too young to have served in the Great War, as Watson had in his youth, but had I been of age... the thought of risking one's life for the sake of a political alliance, an overly-ambitious leader, a questionable ideology remains far beyond my comprehension. And yet, Watson had done so twice-- in the Great War, and again in the service of preserving the Empire... a task to which I’ve often found myself in a fierce, though unstated, opposition. I’d no wish to listen to war stories that would serve only to find me alternating between furious as to the state of the world and its leaders and disturbed as to how close Watson had come to a premature end.

I have read of the properties of phosgene and mustard gas and have even witnessed firsthand the efficiency of chlorine-- quite by accident when emptying out beakers sterilised with a sodium hypochlorite solution into the laboratory sink. That was more than enough for me. I’ve no desire to ever picture its wartime uses. Even less to contemplate in what manner the gasses had attacked Watson's lungs, costing him his health as well as the ability to earn a decent wage in a dreadful post-war economy, though they had not been able to damage his resilient spirit.

Of course, all are far too eager to inform me that there are vastly different reasons for our current conflict-- and I cannot help but agree. Clearly, Germany aims to take over all of Europe, with its eye on global domination, and we can do scarce little but hold them back with our blackouts and our sheltering beneath the streets; that does not feel like warfare so much as survival. 

Nor can I begrudge Watson the opportunity to cope in whatever manner he sees fit and occasionally pretend the fighting was merely an adventure of his youth, but…. Well, it never fails to occur to me that Watson is likely the type of man to be subjected to some dreadful weapon in defense of King and Country, and I am likely the type of man to have callously invented it. Something similar to Dr Tobel's new bomb, for instance. Or whatever weaponry the mind of man has yet to create, the use of which we shall collectively claim holds some noble purpose.

You think I exaggerate. I do no such thing.

A scientist (who should by all rights be far more well-known than he is) by the name of Louis Fieser, had once been my lab partner during my brief stint at Oxford. We had worked side by side, experimenting with coal tar derivatives; I had created nothing of consequence, but within his work had lain the seed for a synthetic form of Vitamin K. I’d followed his discoveries as best I could through published alumni updates, and my fellow classmates and I had all been quite certain he would be awarded a Nobel Prize in Medicine. Alas, no Nobels were to be given that year, with Norway having succumbed to Nazi occupation. We were hardly what one would call close friends, but I had sent him a telegram (he had become an instructor at Cambridge by this time-- the one located in Massachusetts, United States of America) informing him that the scientific community and his fellow alumni were well aware of his invaluable work, prize or no. He had surprised me with a friendly response that he would be meeting with old colleagues while doing new research in Britain to aid in the war effort, and he should be very pleased if he could count me among them.

I had assumed it was to do with his last known project-- developing synthetic quinine for malaria treatments. With Java under Japanese control, the majority of the world's supply of cinchona, as well as its largest quinine manufacturing plant, lies in enemy hands. To make matters worse, the repository for the finished medicine (in Amsterdam) has been under Axis control for some time now. Even at this very moment, more troops are being felled by malaria than by Japanese bullets. I am convinced Fieser _also_ believed the research was for this purpose-- at least initially. He would never have mentioned the war effort were that not the case. His ongoing medical research was hardly classified, but whatever the true nature of those new experiments had been, _they_ most certainly _were_. 

A month later, I had received a tersely-worded telegram proclaiming the project abandoned. Fieser would not be leaving the States after all. The communique had only wanted for a postscript: 'Forget the previous conversation had ever happened'. Whatever war-related purpose Britain had had in mind in sending him here, it had nothing to do with malaria. And I doubt the trip had been cancelled so much as redacted.

As I am prone to do on occasion, I had casually asked Mycroft if he knew of my former classmate's latest project. He had denied knowing anything in such a manner that I was now certain he knew _everything_. For Mycroft, silence is a sort of confessional. The rumours are just now beginning to circulate that an American scientist created some sort of thixotropic petrol gel, supposedly with naphthalene, though it is likely someone made an error, as I am at a loss as to how something as harmless and commonplace as mothballs could be effectively weaponized.

Fieser and I are more alike than I'd care to admit. In all his simplicity, Watson is never plagued by such moral dilemmas regarding the corruption of discoveries and the definition of progress. There is something comfortably grounding in this-- the assurance that he will pull me back, should I stray too far afield in the name of science. Just as he had done with that infernal Devil's Foot experiment I had taken upon myself to run without adequate precautions. The feeling of safety is without compare. I should tell him this, I know. Instead, I snap at him or am unnecessarily brusque. I will be sure to communicate this next time. 

And now I’m proving myself no better than my dear friend when it comes to storytelling. I meant to speak of a case which had brought about the most far-reaching consequences of any in my career, and instead, I have wandered into all sorts of unnecessary territory in an attempt to create... atmosphere. It is not as detrimental as Watson's romantic sub-plots, but it is distracting, nonetheless. In my defense, it’s a tale I find difficult to tell. Well. On with it, I suppose.

The telephone had been ringing for a full minute. I have nothing against the march of technology-- better moving pictures, faster transportation-- but there is something disarming about the telephone. I much prefer the telegraph. Words flow from my hand far more easily than from my mouth. And of course, it is infinitely more private than these dreadful party lines. But the infernal thing had kept right on ringing, persistent as a raven at my chamber door, so I reluctantly picked up the handset. To my surprise, it was Watson. 

"Holmes. _Finally_. I...need you to come here. Murray isn't really Murray. I think.” His voice was unnaturally quiet and more than a bit slurred. "So I need you to make sure he isn't a baddie."

“And you are calling from his hotel room telephone while he is unconscious."

"Great Scott! How did you..." He stopped and started over again more quietly. "Yes. How did you know?" 

"Elementary, my dear Watson. You are clearly no longer at the pub-- there is a distinct lack of ambient noise. Furthermore, you are speaking quietly, because you do not wish to wake the man who may or may not be your friend Bill Murray. Also, you have had a substantial amount to drink-- which would account for both his condition and your speech. Where is he staying?"

"He isn't Bill Murray. Or at least he isn't _that_ Bill Murray. We are at the Dorchester."

I’ve an internal map of London that is far more precise than any yet in print, and I searched my brain attic for another hotel of a similar name which my less-than-observant friend might have confused with the Dorchester. I found none. There is only one Dorchester, newly-opened and outrageously expensive, far too much for a man with no more than an army pension for funds. I’d have asked Watson if he was quite certain it was the Dorchester if I could have found a way to do so without insulting him. I was about to do so anyway, when he quickly added, "I didn't believe him either. That's why I'm here. I didn't buy it, and it turned into something of a bet, and here I am. Room.... Uh, room…. Wait a minute." 

I hoped Watson wouldn't end up somehow locking himself out. There was the thunk of the receiver hitting the nightstand, he was gone for a few minutes, and then he returned to the line, triumphant.

"Room 5-4-7!”

"I'll be there as quickly as possible."

I rushed out of the flat, rounded the corner to the busier street, and hailed a cab. The hotel wasn’t far, but if Watson had managed to drink alongside Murray to the point of his friend losing consciousness, it stood to reason Watson wasn’t far behind. Breaking in was always a possibility, but it would be difficult to find the right moment; the hotel was noted for its high level of service, and porters, doormen, cleaning ladies, waiters and other staff would surely swarm the lobby. I could not wait for long and risk Murray regaining consciousness before Watson did. If this was indeed an imposter, I hoped his was merely a reconnaissance mission and Watson was in no immediate danger, but that was far from certain.

I was there within ten minutes and found the room. Watson opened the door abruptly mid-knock, my fist narrowly avoiding his chest. He stared at my clenched fist for a moment, and then his eyes made their way slowly up to my face and he smiled. 

“Well now, Holmes, it's been a while, but, drinking a man under the table is a bit like riding a bicycle. Except I don't know how to ride a bicycle. But, it's a bit like riding a bicycle would be if I _did_ know how to ride a bicycle." I entered the room as he trailed off into a series of unintelligible mumbles, only to reemerge with a few clear words, "...damn well can do _something_ , then. Right!" He turned to me again, "And. Ever since that whole... thing... with that so-called 'Major Duncan Bleek', I've been more than a bit _suspicious_ ," he stumbled over the word in drunken prosody, "of anyone calling himself a fellow soldier.”

"That's it, old boy!" I gave him a hearty clap on the back and he toppled slightly forward on unsteady feet.  
He raised a finger slowly and added, “'Course Moran _was_ a fellow soldier. Didn't lie about that, I suppose."

“No, he didn't."

"And he _did_ play a good game of gin rummy. But, this... Not-Murray… is out cold, for a few hours at least. And I am, too. I mean, I will be, too. Soon. And you can search pockets and whatnot… _his_ pockets. Not _my_ pockets. And go rifling those long fingers of yours through his drawers. The drawers in his wardrobe, I mean. Not his…” Watson paused for a moment and near tripled his volume, no longer taking pains not to wake the man collapsed in the kitchen chair with a glass of whiskey still beside him. “Well, I don't want your fingers in his drawers! If you are putting your fingers in anyone's drawers they should, by all rights, be _my_ drawers, because _I_ am the one who puts up with the bloody violin at 3 am, _not_ Murray, and I should say I deserve first crack at that, if anyone is having a crack! But that isn't something someone should actually say, now, is it?” 

I can scarcely imagine my own expression upon hearing this, but then again, Watson couldn’t imagine it either. He was far too lost in the very formation of the words to consider their effect upon me. 

“Good thing I know how to keep my mouth shut. I'm useful that way. And Holmes can't afford to go and lose brain cells from this foul stuff,” he continued. “No. Wait. Holmes has plenty of brain cells to lose. I'm the one who can't afford to lose them. But I just lost them.” He began to sing, softly. “My little brain cells, lost in the wood... I know I could... always be good..." Then he looked up at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. "Oh! Evening, Holmes! Will you watch over me, Holmes? I think I need some watching over. Holmes." He passed out, landing squarely on the couch. 

I stood and stared at Watson for a moment before I came to my senses and went through Not-Murray’s pockets. They yielded only a room key. He had no identification. Either there was a wallet to be found hidden within the room or the hotel staff knew him exceptionally well. Still, the man would need a money clip at the very least. Even a criminal mastermind with ties throughout the city so deep that no one in his circle would dare charge him so much as a farthing for tea would require some cash every now and then. 

His money roll was tucked within the lining of his briefcase. It was impressive. If it was, in fact, Murray, he had been paid handsomely to supply information and was certainly no friend. The payment must have taken place recently, on his way back to the hotel, or this was a mere half-payment. I certainly hoped this stack of bills wasn’t an advance on a job not yet completed. If so, it would be one hell of a job.

I continued to search the room and found a slip of paper hidden beneath the hotel Bible. 

‘Lobby, by elevator, third stall, 6 pm.’

It was 5:42. 

Any meeting in a ‘third stall’ was more likely to be an exchange of physical goods than of mere information. I would take whatever I was supposed to take, and if I was to be the provider, I could explain I hadn’t yet secured whatever it was. If I couldn’t play along successfully, I could always act as if I was an innocent bystander, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and leave quickly. I headed to the lobby men’s room.

Securing my spot in the third stall, I waited, checking my watch. At a minute past six, I heard the creak of the door and a man occupied the stall adjacent to my own. 

“Shame about the carsey. Nanti on the cottaging tonight, mind. Sharpie’s ajax.” He laughed.

A solid command of various languages might just be the greatest skill any detective can possess. Fortunately, I had many reasons to be familiar with Polari...but mine was rusty. I hoped it would suffice. 

“Dog and bone just won’t do, eh? Auntie Nell… Holmes is a charpering omni! Oneys, parker the measures.” I’d find out if this was a payment in full or a mere deposit by his reaction.

“The cackle is ‘e’s a bijou sharpette. Oneys, ‘e gotta snuff it. Doueys, get the gelt. Savvy?”

“Bona. And the naff in the lattie?”

He laughed again. A nervous habit? “Naff? Nanti that! ‘E’s so, ‘e is. _Versatile_.”

“No flies?”

“Alamo?”

“Hah. The dizzy, b-flat crocus or the maunger BMQ with the vonka?”

“Dizzy’s right. Can’t tell a cove from a moguing gaujo. Sweet strish! You bet we’ll do the rights for the boss. Multee hambag peroney. Gotta dash. Betty Bracelette’s round the bend. Nanti polari, mais oui.”

“Mais oui!”

I peeked through the slot in the stall to catch a glimpse of him as he left.

So. There’s a price on both our heads, then. Moriarty’s third-in-command wasn’t above tapping into the Polari-speaking community to get a job done. Some fine actors amongst them, not including the one who had failed spectacularly at fooling Watson. I cursed myself for not asking how he had known it wasn’t Murray instead of having shown off about his location. Well, something had been wrong with the actor’s performance. I hoped nothing had been wrong with mine. 

I wondered briefly if _I_ was the police presence he was so concerned about, but then again, I was just a tiny little version of a policeman, in his opinion. Someone else was clearly following him. A quick call to the Yard would sort that out. An arrest would be necessary, and, having left the room with two unconscious men inside, it would be far easier to return to it accompanied by a man with a badge. The front desk was likely to be on the take in order for a simple actor with no identification to afford so deluxe a room. Best off not being seen by them now, if I had somehow managed to escape their notice when I had entered the lobby previously. There was a coin-operated telephone down the hall. 

Hopkins was only too eager to make the arrest. I gave him a fairly detailed description of the bathroom suspect in exchange for a rather long list of crimes he, one Randolph “Randy” Meyers, was wanted for. It took two officers to carry the still-unconscious Murray impersonator out the rear entrance. 

I was once again back in the hotel room, with a very disoriented, slowly-sobering Watson.

 _Nanti polari_. Don’t speak of it. Watson was far from himself when he had uttered his words.

And yet.

Working off of the presumption _in vino, veritas_ , and assuming Meyers’s assessment of Watson as open to many possibilities was true, I was now even more uncertain as to where that left me. My curiosity felt, on occasion, as if it were far more rooted in the spirit of scientific inquiry than in my own physical urges. It was something I had considered and had dismissed every moment an opportunity had presented itself, though there are admittedly not many such opportunities for someone with as few friends as I.

Watson had implied that The Woman had run away with the photograph as well as my heart. What rubbish! She was quite exceptional, and I had learned a great deal regarding my underestimating of women from the late Mrs Norton-- though I suppose the experience had left me no better at understanding them. And Watson’s late wife’s fingerprints were clearly all over my meeting with fellow governess Miss Violet Hunter-- a remarkable woman in many aspects, in whom I still held little interest. Mycroft occasionally threw a client my way, meant as some sort of sampling of available men. But through it all, my relationship to Watson was quietly growing stronger in ways I did not fully comprehend. It was not exactly a romance in the traditional sense, and yet, I found no one else I wished to tether my life to in this way. There was no need for a name for such a thing; if we both wished it, it could be ours. To what degree he wished it-- and would he not prefer another wife?-- was the issue at hand.

And here, my nerves had the best of me yet again. A man as worldly as Watson would have little need to form deeper ties with someone as, limited, as myself. If he did want more intimate affection from me, I scarce knew if I was capable of returning it.

And yet.

Watson stirred on the sofa. The sofa within a grand hotel, gracing a room commissioned by a man who had pretended to be his friend but was in fact a hired killer, who he had outdrunk just before imparting to me a vague confession of interest, who was then taken away to be questioned regarding his co-conspirator, who had unintentionally informed me of Watson’s sexual interest in both men and women leaving me to contemplate the matter-- all while Watson had been unconscious. How does one even begin to explain such a sequence of events?

Well, in fact, like this:

Watson opened his eyes and looked toward the kitchen for the other man. “So, he _was_ a baddie, then?”

“Yes. Hopkins took him away. He was in league with another to kill us both. Revenge for their employer.”

“Which one might that be?”

“With as many enemies as we have earned ourselves, it is impossible to be certain.”

“Did I miss anything else interesting?”

I paused and moved closer to the sofa.

“Only my own drunken ramblings, I suppose. I believe I serenaded you?”

“That you did.”

“And,” he pulled himself up straight and blushed. “My sincere apologies if I said anything which made you uncomfortable, Holmes. It has been quite a while since I have indulged past my tolerance. I’d no wish to embarrass you with anything inappropriate. I am... sometimes, a bit--”

“Think nothing of it, Watson. You speak plainly from time to time and there is only good in that.” He looked at me as if he wished to continue, but was at a loss for words, and I spoke once more. “And...I should think we are... at the point in our friendship where we can say embarrassing things and not have it matter going forward. After all, what is said after a half-bottle of whiskey is hardly something to hold someone to. The liquor speaks for the man.”

“Can't say I’ve ever had the whiskey speak for me in my life. But there have been many times when things were said that... would have been best left unsaid.” He paused. “I remember most of it, if not all of it, Holmes. I...that I have communicated feelings I knew would never be returned was an unnecessary strain upon our partnership.”

“Watson, I’m not embarrassed, so much as… perplexed.”

“Of course you knew where I stood on the matter-- can’t hide a thing from you-- but I had no intention of harassing you. I respect you as you are, Holmes. I would hate for anything I said to make you feel as if I didn’t. And I am sorry.”

“You… I …”

“And now I’ve gone and put you out of words. There’s no need to try to make me feel better. It won’t happen again. Provided I have no reason to make a man pass out, that is.” 

He smiled weakly. But it was his smile. I returned it.

“I don’t know what to say in response because… well, I genuinely don’t know how to feel about this, but, not quite the way you think, old chap. I’m...surprised that you, hold any interest in me and… furthermore...I...don’t know what to do with the information.”

“You don’t have to do _anything_ with it. Meaningless babbling. I mean…. It wasn’t meaningless, because I meant it all. But. I know it isn’t a thing that interests you and it doesn’t need to be addressed.” Watson stood and held out his hand. As if a good, firm handshake could put us back on solid footing. I didn’t take it. I stared at his hand like an imbecile who was wholly unaware of what a handshake was.

“I am not saying it doesn’t interest me. It interests me quite a bit, actually, but….” My increasing agitation was disturbing to my own self. There was no telling how poorly Watson might take this odd outburst. “I don’t know _how_ it interests me. Or _why_. Or... _in what way_ , precisely.”

Watson dropped his hand and sat down again. “You don’t like not having answers, do you?”

I thought for a moment. “No. No, I do _not_ like not having answers. At all.”

“Take it from me, not having answers isn’t as bad as it seems. You are allowed to have a tiny part of your life with uncertainty in it. I, sometimes feel as if I lose half the function of my brain when I’m around you, you know. I say the most ridiculous things. You’ve seen my writing; you know I am not without words. But, sometimes, I want to impress you and catch up to you and it all goes so very wrong. But I have accepted there are things I can't keep up with. That I can’t possibly know. And. It’s been fine.”

“Yes. It has, hasn’t it.”

“Course, I do still make a terrible impression sometimes. But I am what I am. And you can’t possibly know everything about everything. You aren’t the emotionless machine any more than I’m the hopeless idiot. You’ve found something that’s still a bit of a puzzle. Good. You are allowed one area that is still confusing. It would, as always, be my greatest joy and privilege to help you figure things out.”

So, here we are. Watson and I, in our little cottage, dwarfed by the great, white cliffs of Sussex. Neither of us is entirely sure what he wants, save for the opportunity to figure it out together. You won’t hear of these adventures in any book. As a matter of fact, Watson has ensured our continued privacy by claiming that he is still in London and that I live a solitary life here with nothing but an elderly housekeeper and my bees for company.

It was one of his more brilliant ideas, if I do say so myself. 

Nanti polari, mais oui.

**Author's Note:**

> I used actual historical figures and places whenever I could, so yah, Caravan Club, Louis Fieser, Drieberg...all real people. The Black Book is real as well. Dr Tobel and 'Major Duncan Bleek’ (aka Sebastian Moran) are from the Rathbone films. 
> 
> Polari is a truly fascinating language of outcasts and wanderers which blends Roma, Yiddish, Cockney Rhyming Slang, Lingua Franca, theatre and sailing terminology and backwards words and fantabulizes the whole damn thing. Gay men used it as a code to quiz other potentially gay men so they’d be safe. It was heavily employed in the 1930s and 40s and was gone by the 70s with the legalisation of homosexuality. Here is a rough translation:
> 
> “Shame about the carsey. Nanti on the cottaging tonight, mind. Sharpie’s ajax.”: Sorry we had to meet in a public restroom. Forget about having anonymous sex in here tonight though, because there are policemen nearby.
> 
> “Dog and bone just won’t do, eh? Auntie Nell… Holmes is a charpering omni! Oneys, parker the measures.”: Telephone isn’t good enough, right? Hey, listen up...Holmes is a policeman! First, give me my money/salary.
> 
> “The cackle is ‘e’s a bijou sharpette. Oneys, ‘e gotta snuff it. Doueys, get the gelt. Savvy?”: The word on the street is he is a little (extra ending “ette” for diminutive, so kinda like tiny little) policeman. First, he needs to die. Second, you get the money. Clear?
> 
> “Bona. And the naff in the lattie?”: Good. What about the boring, tasteless and in many ways unfuckable straight man that’s in my hotel room? 
> 
> “Naff? Nanti that! ‘E’s so, ‘e is. _Versatile_.”: The boring, tasteless, unfuckable straight man? Nope, you are so wrong. He is gay. Actually, he’s bisexual.
> 
> “No flies?” : You’re joking. No shit?
> 
> “Alamo?”: (From LMO …’lick me out’) So, you think he’s attractive now?
> 
> “Hah. The dizzy, b-flat crocus or the maunger BMQ with the vonka?”: Hah. The scatterbrained, fat doctor or the ugly closet-case with the (big) nose?
> 
> “Dizzy’s right. Can’t tell a cove from a moguing gaujo. Sweet strish! You bet we’ll do the rights for the boss. Multee hambag peroney. Gotta dash. Betty Bracelette’s round the bend. Nanti polari, mais oui.”: Scatterbrained’s right. He can’t tell the difference between a good buddy and a scheming stranger. Great performance! I’m sure we’ll get our revenge for the boss. Much money/gifts for each one of them. I have to go quickly--there is a policeman around the corner. Don’t speak of this to anyone, of course.
> 
> “Mais oui!”: Of course.


End file.
